


cat people, dog people

by winnehield



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Puppies, all fluff no plot, thats it thats the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winnehield/pseuds/winnehield
Summary: Linhardt sits up with a start, heart pounding so hard he fears it’ll pop. Out of instinct, he reaches for his book much like he’d reach for one of his tomes. Except, this time, there’s no threat, no harm to be done at all.He stares down at the intruder: a fluffy, stubby puppy, with floppy ears and a wet little nose. The pup doesn’t seem to care much that it nearly scared the life out of Linhardt. It just peers up at him with big, bright eyes and wags its little, stubby tail.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	cat people, dog people

**Author's Note:**

> i just think there needs to be more meaningless fluff for these two. also ive never had a puppy so im sorry if the puppy experience is inaccurate i just know that all baby mammals tend to act the same. im projecting i want a puppy. also ill edit this later maybe idk

It is day twenty-three of Sylvain being away on business. Linhardt is… coping. That’s really all he can say on the subject. If one were to press for answers, though, Linhardt would argue that he’s been utterly  _ miserable _ for every one of those days. 

His bed has never been so cold, or so empty and big and lonely in all of his time with Sylvain. Linhardt spends his mornings doing boring paperwork, and his afternoons lounging about, eating sweets and snacks and napping all by himself. Linhardt is almost positive he has single handedly consumed more pastries in the past three weeks than he has his whole entire life. 

The one major thing Linhardt has grown to dislike about spring is the way the roads finally thaw out long enough for Sylvain to have to go around on little, meaningless trips to other territories. This trip is one of them- off to Galatea goes his husband, to do whatever fancy business befits a Margrave. Something about food trades and knights? Whatever it was, it sounded incredibly dull and involved stealing Linhardt’s favorite person in the world for a whole month. 

Today is one of those days where Linhardt would probably admit that,  _ yes, _ marriage has softened him up quite a bit. In lieu of his daily nap with his husband, Linhardt has sprawled himself out on a rug in front of the fireplace. He’s found that while he does still enjoy (and, to a lesser extent, need) his usual naps, doing so without his husband makes it feel horribly unsatisfying. Perhaps he’s been spoiled a little too much. Or perhaps he’s simply raised his standards after the war ended- who knows? There’s a stark difference between napping on cold tent floors and the warmth of his husband’s embrace. 

Now, he thinks, as he tries to soak up the fire’s warmth, he’s got nothing that comes remotely close to making him sleep well at night. And, yeah, he might be acting a little dramatic about it. What does it matter? Linhardt likes to think he’s earned his right to complain about missing his husband after all he’s done to keep his darling alive. 

He sighs. Linhardt misses Sylvain. A whole lot more than he’d like to admit, actually. Reading is normally one of Linhardt’s favorite pastimes, but not even one of his  _ many _ unfinished history books seems to capture his attention. Linhardt has been picking at the pages for hours now, skimming and rereading the same few pages over and over. Not a single word has stuck. Every single word has gone straight through him and right into the fireplace. 

Goddess. He’s pathetic, isn’t he? Not even a full month after his husband’s departure, Linhardt has resorted to monologuing to himself while he rots away in front of the fireplace. What a horrible turn his life has taken. 

Maybe it’s a little melodramatic of him to act like this. But also, and consider this, please, maybe he’s won the right to act this way after struggling to keep his love alive for many, many years. Has he said that already? Linhardt’s not actually sure. 

As much as he loves reading, Linhardt’s quite sure his brain is fried from staring at the same page for the past hour. His eyes sting a little, a surefire sign that he’s long due for his nap. Getting up off the floor is too much work for too little reward- again, no bed warmer or goodnight kisses are available- so where’s the use in it? It’s a trick question. There is no use in it, so Linhardt doesn’t even bother. 

He curls up into a cozy, comfortable little ball on the rug, much like their cat does, and closes his eyes. Though he hates to admit it, it’s a little hard to fall asleep, all things considered. 

Fuck. He misses his husband a lot. More than he’s missed anything else, he thinks. Maybe not as much as Mercedes and her baking. Actually, scratch that. Linhardt’s just hungry, and he most certainly loves his husband more than some baked treats. 

Hm. Unless…

No. Sylvain is the love of his life. Even if he’s far too reckless for his own good. It’s a blessing in disguise that he’s been sent to Galatea. Ingrid would never let Sylvain get away with anything stupid. Besides, when he returns, Linhardt can talk him into a trip to the bakery anyways. While the pastries at the local bakery aren’t quite as good as the ones Mercedes makes, they come pretty damn close. And…

And…. 

_ And that is something wet nudging his hand. What the fuck. _

Linhardt sits up with a start, heart pounding so hard he fears it’ll pop. Out of instinct, he reaches for his book much like he’d reach for one of his tomes. Except, this time, there’s no threat, no harm to be done at all. 

He stares down at the intruder: a fluffy, stubby puppy, with floppy ears and a wet little nose. The pup doesn’t seem to care much that it nearly scared the life out of Linhardt. It just peers up at him with big, bright eyes and wags its little, stubby tail. He relaxes his grip on his book. 

“Shit. He got away,” comes a voice from down the hall. The puppy and Linhardt both snap their attention to the source. Sylvain enters the room, struggling to carry four other puppies in his arms. They’re all wiggling and wagging their little tails, each one brimming with excitement. 

“Sylvain?” Linhardt tries to keep the excitement out of his voice. He also fails miserably, because Sylvain  _ beams. _

“Linhardt Gautier,” he says, voice dripping with affection. “The love of my life. How’s it been? Happy to see me?” 

There’s no stopping the smile that spreads across Linhardt’s face. He couldn’t hide it if he tried. He’s happy to see his husband. “Yes, very much so. But, I have to ask… What’s with these?” Linhardt gestures to the puppy that is currently in the process of laying in Linhardt’s lap, tail wagging happily all the while. 

“Okay,” Sylvain says, trying desperately to balance three wriggling puppies in his arms. A fourth little hound is nipping at his pant leg, and the fifth has already made its way into Linhardt’s lap, licking wildly at Linhardt’s book hand. “I bet you’re a little mad. Hell, I know you’re probably  _ very _ mad. But I swear, I can explain.”

Linhardt nods. He brushes the lapdog away from his book, only for it to return a second later, now trying to force Linhardt’s hands to pet. “I am indeed a little mad,” he echoes, despite not being very mad at all. “I thought you were going to Galatea to visit Ingrid?”

“I was. But I stopped in Fhirdiad on the way back, to visit Ashe and Dedue, but Caspar was there as well-”

Linhardt’s jaw drops. He pauses mid-scratch, displeasing the poor puppy. “You visited Caspar without me?”

“-and while I was there, I happened to meet the stray dog they were feeding!” Sylvain carries on like Linhardt never even opened his mouth. He gestures to the pups in his arms, all wagging tails and bright eyes. “She was a stray they took in, but they didn’t realize she was pregnant until recently. Funny, right? Her litter was so big they couldn’t care for them all, so I, you know…” One of the puppies, with a big splotch of white on its forehead, escapes the tangle of its siblings and tumbles to the floor with a whelp. It toddles over to Linhardt on clumsy little legs. 

“You brought them  _ all _ home?” Linhardt can’t fathom what went through Sylvain’s head that convinced him bringing home  _ five _ puppies was a good idea. “Most people only bring one or two, you know.” 

Sylvain doesn’t even look sorry. He just laughs and shrugs, coming to stand besides Linhardt. “Come on, Lin, angel. Look at their coats! They were born for the cold weather up here. They’ll love it up here with us!” 

“Well,” Linhardt sighs. He sets his book down for the first time in hours, looking at the two pups now settled in his lap. They’re awfully cute, what with their thick, puffy coats of fur and massive ears. It’s adorably disproportionate. And their legs are so little and stubby, they all look like they’re waddling when they walk. It’s pathetic how easily they win Linhardt over. “I’ve never been much of a dog person.” 

Sylvain sits next to him on the floor by the fireplace, setting the other three down between them both. All the puppies yip and sniff at Linhardt before settling into one big, sweet pile of fluff besides Linhardt’s legs. “You’ll grow to like them. Besides,” he starts, beaming down at Linhardt. His heart swells in his chest as one pup places its paw on Linhardt’s hand , and then swells again when Sylvain pulls him in for a kiss. “I’ve never been much of a cat person, but I’ve grown to love both my kittens anyways. I’m sure you and the Captain will adjust.” 

Ah, yes. Captain Itty Bitty, their resident bastard child with claws and the softest fur Linhardt has ever felt, brought all the way from Hevring territory. She’s a lovely girl when she isn’t pulling strange vanishing acts and figuring out how to open doors. And-

“ _ Me? _ I’m not a cat,” Linhardt chokes out, nigh offended. “And you know the Captain won’t take kindly to strangers. Do you remember how she reacted when Dimitri visited? We couldn’t find her for a whole day!” She’s never been the bravest of cats. Linhardt’s almost positive she’s half ghost and half cat. He’s never met a cat as eccentric as she is. He swears he’s seen her vanish into thin air at  _ least _ once. 

“Hm. Fair. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Sylvain picks up a particularly energetic one, who yips and licks Sylvain across the nose. Sylvain nods in affirmation, gaze warm and teasing as he turns to look at Linhardt. “I think I’m in love, Lin.” 

He scoffs. That’s absurd. Falling in love with a puppy just because of a little saliva on your nose? Absurd. Not that Linhardt has any room to speak- the pup holding his hand shifts to rest its tiny little head on top of Linhardt’s hand, and something about the action is so sweet Linhardt fears he’ll melt on the spot. He reaches over and gently pets the puppy with his free hand, unable to stop himself from smiling at the way it nuzzles into his touch. 

Well. If they  _ have _ to keep them… “They’ll need names, love,” Linhardt remarks. He has to bite back the embarrassment that comes when he realizes just how  _ gentle  _ his voice comes out. It’s humiliating. Is this what these puppies have done to him? “And collars, to tell them apart. I couldn’t bear to get them all mixed up with each other.” 

“Huh. Yeah. Maybe some cute ribbon ones? I think we can go buy some. Oh, or maybe leather, when they grow older?” Sylvain is examining the pup in his arms with great scrutiny. “I think they’d be cute in darker shades. Gautier Red, maybe?” 

Linhardt hums in acknowledgement. His right hand is a little damp with puppy drool. It’s gross, but Linhardt finds he doesn’t have the heart to move his hand. “There’s enough red in this house as is. Besides, they'll be growing so fast I doubt any collars we have made will fit for long.” That, and the ribbons would look far cuter on them. Ah, but it snows a lot, and they'd probably get it all wet and dirty…

Hm. This is harder than he thought it would be. Linhardt tries to come up with some solution, but to no avail. Sylvain must be thinking too, because when Linhardt glances at him, his darling husband is wearing the same face he makes when thinking about which horse to ride- a deep, thoughtful look, almost mournful, even. 

They make eye contact. Sylvain grins at him, even as the puppy in his arms covers his cheek in slobber. Linhardt can't help but smile back. 

“You know,” he teases, “I never got a hello kiss, Sylvain.”

His husband laughs, loud and hearty and extremely, unfairly cute. “Oh? Are we doing hello kisses now?” Despite his teasing, Sylvain doesn’t hesitate in kissing Linhardt. He even goes so far as to grab his free hand, squeezing it tight and running his thumb over Linhardt’s wedding ring like the terrible sap he is. 

“Yes, I think we should. It’s not like we’ll have much privacy after taking them in,” Linhardt remarks. He, with great regret, nudges his right hand free and wipes the drool off onto his pants. Then he does something he’s wanted to do for a while- he reaches down and scratches at the head of one of the puppies. 

“Eugh. Don’t do that,” Sylvain says, because the cleanliness of Linhardt’s clothing is the only thing that seems to bother Sylvain about this entire situation. “That’s gross. Use a handkerchief.” 

Linhardt rolls his eyes. “Will you be teaching our five children about keeping tidy as well?” 

“Mm… Maybe.” Sylvain scratches his chin. Then he grins. “Nah, enough about dog drool. Let’s talk about puppy names.” 


End file.
